When I was six, my mother commented that she had ugly legs. But, at six, all I had ever noticed about myself was that I had her legs.

When I was fourteen, I learned about genetics in science class. I stared longer at the textbook’s side-by-side photo comparisons than the rest of the class . I couldn’t help it. Every genetic aspect had one photo which looked pretty and one that was ugly. I only possessed the ugly traits- every. single. one.

Now I’m twenty-nine staring at my naked body in the mirror. Funny how the exact same sense of dread and hate carries from six to twenty-nine. Everything is repulsing: my sagging breasts, my overflowing stomach, my extensive thighs… Who could ever love this? Not one part of me is flattering. Not even my mind.